Bombay Gin

Here's some of the work you'll find in Bombay Gin 1998...

Diana RickardFROM APOLLINAIRE IN OCTOBER (MISTRANLSATIONS)

an old pair of yellow shoes waits below the window arranged when the light beauty
pales like an inconsolable violet at the beginning of the minute though forests birth
with arias not at all like little pills. you're a curtain, you ride across telephone
wires beyond the traumatized giant with colored eyes of a Turkish town where indigent
boys chew on white ties. here are the towered streets where trees crack over the very
vagabonds they shade. in Vancouver the trail of white snow is the fire of winter:
an orange on a windowsill.

Jack GreeneALONG THE SHORE IN MICHIGAN FOR LISA HAMMOND

"The intuitive is not discarded"- L.H.

Along the shore sea shells Along your bed kelp and vine Waves from a place only you could see

I heard your voice in Florence Along the banks of the Arno In the 14th gallery of the Uffize You were there, as before, long hair, skin of alabaster, standing on a shell

One said once an overt thing & the first time you heard it was not "parents" it was
not "couple" even, it was not a curing or a problem. Even then or everyone seemed
to live in one bed which took up a living room. Suppose the marriage bed. Suppose
it bled. The infant bowed her head to ponder. A large head a child's intellect whose
shoulder sprouted winds. Winds inside a mind. It was wonderful to be a wing in poetry,
Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. What was a mind albeit
true? Were their little rooms inside with beds in them in this one mind with eyes
for windows? Messing though a wooden scent of pine drawer as in don't mess around
in their drawers. Tables with human legs & scent of love & mix in food & children.
Something in this one. Mysterious love instruments. And needles for the diabetic confused
with drama, with Discretion at the bedside of valour. Or, you might say, winged hope.
Panties, from Pan, god of . . . ? And it was a child's curiousity and breathin. That
it could be strange. Warm bodies in the marriage bed. A jungle of sheets & flesh.
Pillows & eyes & breathing. Marriage is a place surely surely. That it could be criterion,
psalms of faith in it in it's hardhip & fruition. My hands exist because of marriage,
my tiny fingers because of marriage. My toes curl up because of marriage. My hair
is shiny because of marriage. I touch my cheeks to come to life because of marriage.
To come to life knees, elbows. To come to life ankles. Tongue touches roof of mouth
to come to life because of marriage. Something. What? Definite. Because of marriage.
That it could be a temple & tempestuous & strange of body because of marriage.

Steven TaylorTHE CURATOR'S HUSBAND: A VOICE MAIL AFTER E.P./ RIHAKU

While yet my mother combed my hair I ran at the rough boys' icy slide. The last thing I remember, My mother's cousin's daughter's freckled gaze. You went to Australia, they said, Another in a multitude of exiles.

At thirty-five I met My Mistress you. I never cracked, being paranoid. Looking full on, I faced you without shame. Written to occassionally, I wrote back.

At thirty-eight I desired to lie with you In your grave a thousand years. Why should I look further?

At thirty-nine we parted, You went to California, Magpies made a mocking noise in the alley.

You dragged your feet in that engagement, Then he died on the freeway. Lichens lit by autumn cloud, Too many shades to weep for. Leaves turned in the wind and we grew older. Now our love is made a boy. If you are coming down the canyon, Please let me know beforehand, And we will come out to meet you As far as the mail box.

Cedar SigoA FACTORY TOWN HOUSE FOR ROBIN AND TONY

Can just see the dark object for so long, falls

as a glint at the screen door wants out, goes

there, shrinks back then the room is long Things (a laundry sink, man beside it.) the things in their right wavering

frames painted darker in small places the way

He will remember it standing up face crooked, back of his hand a wall is there, what is his-To be sure of